


Escape Velocity

by i_am_therefore_i_fight



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Character Death, Death, Gen, Hospitals, Serious Injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-29
Updated: 2016-11-29
Packaged: 2018-09-03 00:03:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8688799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_am_therefore_i_fight/pseuds/i_am_therefore_i_fight
Summary: If you love something, don't let it go. Go with it.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Originally gifted to wincestshippingtrash on tumblr in exchange for a charitable donation.

 

* * *

 

_twelve hours_

 

* * *

 

More than a million people die in car crashes every year, worldwide.

 

That’s 3,287 deaths every day. Against those odds, Dean thinks distantly, it’s a wonder they survived as long as they did (while the too-thin, tired-eyed doctor explains it to him _again_ , striving to look sympathetic and understanding, he can tell - how many of these tragedies has she seen, treated, explained, over and over? How many car crash victims pass through the ICU here? 3,287 deaths a day, that’s 137 every _hour_ \- )

 

Although, technically they _didn’t_ survive this long. And actually, among a variety of other deaths, Dean _has_ died in a car crash before; and though he still got the chance to walk away in the end, the math worked out the same - two alive, one dead, and the Winchester boys left orphaned, with nothing but each other.

 

Two out of three’s not bad, really. Not considering how many people (3,287 a day is 137 every hour, that’s three people every _minute_ , three lives snuffed out every sixty seconds _)_ die in car accidents every year. The fact that he and Sam got to walk away from the first one is practically a statistical miracle.

 

But it’s been ten years, and with the dead piling up every year, time - and probability - weren’t on their side.

 

Still. Sam’s not a part of that statistic, at least not yet. For now, he’s still only part of the 30 million in the “injured and disabled” category.

 

* * *

 

_sixteen hours_

 

* * *

 

He breaks out the Ouija Board first thing.

 

“I remember how this goes,” he remarks to the quiet room, laying his fingertips lightly on the planchette. “If you’re tryin’ to tell me somethin’, Sammy, now’s your chance. I don’t have any of your psychic hoo-doo. I can’t just ‘sense your presence’ or whatever, like you did with me.”

 

He waits for a couple of minutes, and when nothing happens, he starts talking again. “You’re probably freaked out, but don’t forget, I’ve done this before. We’ll figure something out, alright? Just talk to me, man.”

 

No response. Maybe Sam is wandering around the hospital somewhere, disembodied and confused, no Reaper around to explain the situation to him.

 

But Dean can’t exactly just bust out the ghost-hunting gear - he’d only end up getting himself kicked out of the hospital, not to mention the fact that the ICU (3,287 a day, 137 an hour - ) is probably _stuffed_ with ghosts, way too haunted to get a clear reading on Sam.

 

Instead, he loyally keeps to his post at Sam’s side, with the Ouija Board handy in case his brother has something to say.

 

* * *

 

_twenty-two hours_

 

* * *

 

Of course he tries Cas, too, even knowing that all of the byways and backroads to Heaven are closed now, even knowing that the only way to get through the gate is the old-fashioned way. He asks for a sign ( _“Just, if Sammy’s up there, can you just let me know? Like - just give me somethin’, man”_ ) but if anyone can hear him, they give no indication.

 

To tell the truth, though, he doesn’t think Sam’s in Heaven right now. It’s not that he doesn’t think his brother deserves it - it’s a simple matter of gravity, of physics; of the fact that there’s no way Sam could go so far without dragging Dean right along with him.

 

* * *

 

_three days_

 

* * *

 

“Gettin’ pretty shaggy, there, little brother.” Dean runs a comb softly through Sam’s hair, rubbing the silken auburn locks thoughtfully between his fingers. “I oughta give you a trim while I can. Might never get another chance.”

 

The words fall with unintended weight, and Dean swallows the sudden thickness in his throat.

 

In truth, he’s grateful for the continuing growth of Sam’s hair, for the beard prickling along Sam’s jaw; he’s starting to feel like it’s his only indication that Sam is still occupying his body, can still be found in there somewhere.

 

He has to still be in there somewhere.

 

(The doctor, as jaded as any hunter, had warned him not get too excited about signs of apparent awareness.

 

“He might open his eyes or make noise, or even move his hands or his head, but he’s not really _responding_ ,” she told him. “It’s normal. It doesn’t mean he’s coming out of the coma.”)

 

But Dean’s seen nothing, not even those barely-credible signs of life; so he strokes one knuckle over Sam’s bearded cheek, and prays to no one that wherever Sam is, he’ll show Dean the way.

 

* * *

 

_one week_

 

* * *

 

“Hey.”

 

Dean starts awake, jerking up so quickly his neck pops. Sam’s hand skitters over his shoulder and drops back to the blanket, pale and weak - but he’s smiling, and Dean suddenly can’t breath.

 

“Hey.” Dean clears his throat and says again, thickly, “Hey.” He’s leaning forward, hands hovering uncertainly for a moment, then settling on the bed. He wants to place them both over Sam’s heart and press down until he feels a beat, but he’s wary of his brother’s two broken ribs, his fractured sternum, his punctured lung - (Sam still looks so fragile, like he would crumble at a touch - and yet, somehow soft, somehow strangely radiant - )

 

Sam pats his hand gently. “You okay?”  


(Does he remember the crash? He would have no way of knowing that Dean escaped largely unscathed, so maybe he’s worried about that - or maybe Dean just looks as wan and phantomlike as he feels, as thin-stretched and unreal, anchored to earth only by the rhythmic sound of Sam’s heart monitor - )

 

“I’m good,” he says. “How you feelin’? How’s your head?”

 

Sam’s lips curl, and his eyes take on a glint that Dean can’t quite read - maybe humorous, maybe a little derisive, but just as likely sympathetic.

 

“I’m gonna have to tell you something,” Sam says ruefully, “and it’s not what you want to hear.”

 

Someone has looped a rope around Dean’s windpipe and is squeezing it slowly tighter. His jaw twitches.

 

“It’s okay. I promise it’s gonna be okay.” Sam’s fingers squeeze his, and they’re cold.

 

Dean is starting to feel lightheaded. His lips form Sam’s name, but no sound comes out.

 

“I didn’t want to leave without saying anything.”

 

“Don’t.”

 

(Don’t say it? Or don’t leave? Does it matter? Will it make a difference?)

 

“Our luck was bound to run out, dude.” Sam clasps Dean’s hand in both of his, rubbing circles with his thumb. “Relax. I’m trying to tell you, it’s gonna be okay.”

 

Breathless, wordless, Dean reaches out to touch his brother’s cheek. Sam’s face is disappearing as his vision blurs, and he blinks hard, desperate to keep Sam in sight, to not let him vanish.

 

“You’re not gonna lose me. We’re always gonna end up in the same place, Dean. You know that.” Sam pauses for a moment, then says, more softly: “You can come with me now, if you want.”

 

Like a balloon being popped, the breath rushes out of him. Dean even manages a choked laugh - grateful, strangely relieved. What did Sam _think_ his answer would be?

 

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, Sam. If you’re going, I’m going.”

 

Sam squeezes his hand. “You don’t have to. I’ll be waiting. Doesn’t matter how long it takes. You could keep going - ”

 

A snapshot of his life, of the years he’d spend just waiting to be _done_ , drifting from day to day just waiting to feel complete again - or maybe less, maybe only a few short violent months until his life would abruptly cut off, caught on the wrong end of a gun or a knife or a monster’s teeth - or, who knows, maybe run off another road by another car, one of the million, one of the 3,287, the 137, the three every minute. Three Winchesters dead, three hunting legends killed not by the things that go bump in the night, but by simple statistics.

 

Dean shakes his head. The answer to Sam’s question is obvious. It’s easy.

 

“What’s the point of _here_ if you’re _there_?” he asks rhetorically.

 

* * *

 

_one week and forty-eight minutes_

 

* * *

 

Doctor Morrow drags her hands down her face. “Explain it to me again. Slower this time.”

 

Julian, the nurse, gives a little huff and throws up his hands, but obediently repeats, “We had a code.”

 

“Uh-huh.”

 

“Sam Hetfield. Coma patient. Car crash.”

 

“Right.”

 

“When we went in there, somebody was there with him. Taylor’s working the desk. She says it was James Hetfield, coma guy’s brother.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“So, at first I was like, wow, this guy’s really calm for someone whose brother is coding right in front of him.”

 

“Right.”

 

“Then I thought, maybe he’s asleep. But who can sleep through that noise?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“So maybe he’s in shock. I tell one of the other guys to get him out of there while we deal with coma guy.”

 

“Right. And?”

 

“After that, I was kind of distracted trying to save coma guy’s life. And then you got here, and… you know the rest.”

 

“So,” Doctor Morrow says, slowly, as if waiting for another possibility to occur to her, “You’re telling me that the brother was dead when you got there.”

 

“Even weirder,” continues Julian. “Taylor says somebody checked on him, like, fifteen minutes ago. He was fine, snoring away.”

 

“So an apparently healthy thirty-something died _in his sleep_ , three feet from his brother the coma patient, who _also_ died within the same fifteen minutes?”

 

Julian shrugs.

 

“Crazy world,” he says.

 

* * *

 

_I'm going to run as fast as I can, fly as high as I can, I am going to soar - and if you want, you can come with me._

 

_~C. Joybell C._


End file.
